I am crushed by the shape of what is missing.
I remember being here before in the quiet—
carrying the weight of rust and neglect—
encased in the void of a vanished world,
bleak as unturned steel.
The house I served is lost to the grounds,
demolished, bitter, left to its own decay,
reduced to a whisper of distant awe.
The beams that once carried warmth within
can no longer support their mangled frame.
Yet this brass still drags my resolve to belong,
heavy as a foundation of bricks and stones,
insisting that survival is something to endure.
We believe life’s splendor must be clear of stain,
but absence is a shadow you cannot ignore.
You are gone—you have been gone for years—
still your presence lingers, a voice in the woods;
louder than the machines that tore you apart.
Through the lingering stench of diesel and turned earth,
Memory is an artisan, bringing forth from shadow to light,
crafting its art from discarded planks.
I turn the key one more time in the dark—
And the phantom door opens.
An old herdsman said to his son
when one went astray,
untethered take note,
it just wandered away,
“You get my goat!”
A present pupil told the teacher
who the register was taking,
with such a serious cough,
the whole school was shaking,
“You tick me off!”
A bossy boyfriend informed his girl,
“We're going for a walk in the woods,”
but bitterly tired of being bossed,
she gave him the goods,
“You can get lost!”
The carpenter spoke to an apprentice,
yet, as his instruction received no thanks,
believed he was teaching a clown,
and, like sanding a pile of planks,
“You wear me down!”
Water speaks under the planks.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
I will not feed the water.
The river wears broken mirrors.
It calls my name in pieces.
I will not feed the water.
The bridge pretends to be mercy.
Bolts cry out then swallow sound.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
You wait across the dark.
Your voice a thin lantern in skull.
I will not feed the water.
Cables hum like teeth in wind.
Each sway drafts endings I can't revise.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
I taught myself fire for you.
Now current learns my face.
I will not feed the water.
Love begs; the current applauds.
Boards bow praying not to snap.
Cold mouth counting my breaths.
Something separates us final.
Wood, water, and my terror.
I will not feed the water.
Uraeal: "The symposium has brought forth the headless horseman, most metaphorically driven to sundown by the celestial charade."
Helel: "Is oft the token be, curse, cursed, or has our sullied names been frothing clean in the sea, like a mind's eye seeing through another portal in the hemisphere?"
Aurora: "I claim lightly like wind, so let's unwind the orchard from that place of plenty, shooting stars strike like platform shoes for nimble fey dancers."
Lucifer: " I might soon turn down the star, and unfold more atramentous ink from which spillage is at once appreciated and birch, prying eyes see far in the dark for some."
The forbidden one: *enters from the left, and softly cascades the waters of newer rivers over the timbers and planks*
---End of act I---
Sunlight reaves through the cerulean sky
and drifting clouds; over mountains, it lies
through the forest's heartbeat, trembling leaves,
upon dappled nature's breast weave.
The placid echo sounds of the fast,
entrancing waterfall cascading vast
downward into a plunge pool across
cool rocks and soft, wet green moss.
We walked to the ridge of the hill.
A sinking feeling of sadness reeled.
The wooden bridge was down;
a lot of the wooden planks drowned.
Absolutely nothing we could do,
except find another way through,
under the shade of branches that weep.
Rest, for the climb was rather steep.
In silent park shadows of trees lengthen,
weave memory lattice etched on the bench,
reminiscing how sunset hues we shared,
entranced by twilight two souls became one.
Contours of our entwined figures erased,
rime on planks wraps warmth of their ardent love.
Swathed by frozen time the still slats listen
our faded voice wind whispers to the bench.
Planks of my fake wood floor are comin' up,
so I better get a new one - yup.
Now, gather 'round to hear me complain
about what a royal pain
it is when you don't have a floor
beneath your own two feet no more.
Especially, when you have bad OCD,
and things must be where they're s'posed to be.
I'm gonna have a heart attack
worrying about getting stuff back.
My back won't let me lift -
will my friends do the manual labor shift?
When I moved in, how was I to know
I'd have to spend this kind of dough?
Well, I guess I should be glad, instead.
I have a roof over my head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Salt-weathered planks hum
under barefoot dawn wanderers—
tide's breath lingers long.
The bridge sighs with old stories,
rusted whispers to the gulls.
I wonder how the trees feel when their leaves finally blow away,
Or when the baby birds nesting there grow old enough to give their mothers chase?
Sitting under her shade,
Do old trees feel pride when they’ve reached their resting age?
Patiently waiting paladins,
There’s thunder in my mind that contemplates,
Why is it that you can’t help but be selfless for all the rest of your days?
Maybe I could learn something from the trees as I hide from the Sun’s rays,
A slumber under your protection,
I wish I could thank you to your face.
I’m thankful for your creation,
I’m thankful you’ve never asked for your thanks.
I’m thankful for your patience,
I apologise for your brothers,
Memorialisised in the planks.
Tranquil,
I humbly offer libation.
I’m grateful for you,
Thanks.
A sink bucket
Today I forgot to buy milk, drank black coffee
it is easy to remember the past shines like jewels
It was the winter of 1952, and my brother carried
a big sink bucket, I was the smallest one
and we were on our way to the coal depot to
find a hole in the fence to steal coal.
We were caught by a man who wore an armband
of the new people in command
they were taking no nonsense from
anyone least of all seven-year-old thieves.
I have often seen that you put a uniform on someone who
who never had power, they behave like little Hitler sprats.
On the way home with two empty buckets, we came across
a wooden fence that had partially fallen, we took as many
planks as we could carry and had a warm Christmas Eve
This world wasn’t a nicest fit for me
But I lived here for awhile
I’m a spirit of a tall leafy tree
A tree with indefinite lovely smile
I provided shade when it was hot
A shelter from rains when it poured
My meekness was noticed, so I’ve finally got
A typical fate to be cut into boards
I’ve been carved into a table and put
In some pub, where the visitors discuss
Football and politics, but I think of my root
Where is it now, in what pile of dust
As a table, I’m just an indifferent plank
Detached from the time, when I was tall
I try to forget how they chopped my trunk
I can’t get over to be so small
By slicing me up into separate planks
They’ve made a complete fool out of me
I’d love to express my ironical thanks
But no one remembers a tall tree.
Whoever abandoned you in the middle of the ocean has no right to know what the sharks did to you or how you managed to reach the shore
However difficult the time , they had the chance to stay beside and help you afloat till your sail was up and high
But they chose to swim away at the first chance they got to a merry ship of any land
While you floated and built your boat on your own with drifting planks of lone
Did they care when the storm came
or sun burned through the sky
or ever wondered if you did found land
Would it bother them if sharks would have made you meat
or you had drowned with exhaustion in search of sand
What happened in the ocean now stands amidst time untold
The story of yours that made you strong and bold
Give gratitude to the universe that drifted you away
from those who left you in alone and cold !
Households unhitch, clapperboard hulls creaking -
the sound of storm-lashed rigging, as washing lines
and telephone wires twist
netting loosening foundations.
Where we once believed roots gripped bedrock,
planks bob in the swell, chests and their drawers
billow and fill.
Bed-springs gape, cupboards
turn inside out, what surfaces
is the face-up exposure
of our everyday innards.
Even as mailboxes are torn away,
we refuse to believe that a river and some wind
could move our lives so a far afield,
or that this world was really in fact,
just this shipwreck on a shore
that is always moving.
What we once thought of
as an address,
has turned out to be only a buoy
on an ever-moving wave.
A tiny footstep, awakens my wooden planks
Who goes there? My inner journeying voice asks
Against the side fence,
four long planks of wood
ascended like steps supported
on pillars of old red bricks
serving as a stand
for my Grandmother's collection
of potted plants.
Cuttings from exotic species gifted
by friends, passed down family heirlooms
harboring memories of past lives,
feathery ferns and plump bellied cacti
battled South Australian
frosty winters and the baking heat
of a summer sun.
All throughout my childhood
they were sustained by love,
flowering on the cue of seasons
and erupting into green
in a yearly miracle of renewal.
I had this odd notion
that each plant found root and drew
from a medium beyond mere soil,
that a strange symbiosis existed
between plant and a human soul.
Not one succumbed to heat
or cold or fell victim to disease.
They grew as a constant, helping
to hold up a wall that gave
a safe and solid perimeter
to our lives.
When my Grandmother died,
they died too - at first
escaping notice in the shadow
of her passing. It was later
when bare spaces drew attention
to their absence and added
to the list of what was missed.
Time heals grief but memory
excavates the loss.
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